


Find Your Way By Moonlight

by withthekeyisking



Category: Batman (Comics), Superman (Comics)
Genre: BAMF Cassandra Cain, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Clark Is Fluent in Batspeak, Emotional Constipation, Future, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Time Travel, What else is new, again what else is new, first time ever writing superbat and they're both idiots, i think that means i did it right, so it's the twilight zone apparently, superbat exchange 2019, the author writes something purely sweet for the first time ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21868012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: When Bruce wakes up, he's not where he's supposed to be.Or, more accurately, he's notwhenhe's supposed to be.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 40
Kudos: 695
Collections: Superbat Exchange Winter 2019





	Find Your Way By Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosm/gifts).



> A gift for [with-your-poncho-on](https://with-your-poncho-on.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the 2019 Superbat Exchange! (AKA rosm)

Bruce can feel that something is wrong before he even opens his eyes.

There’s nothing specific, no strange sounds or lights. His bedsheets feel the same, his pillow and mattress are just as firm as always. The air is cool from the window he left open the night before, like he always does in the early days of autumn. Nothing should be setting off alarm bells in his head, as far as he can tell.

But Bruce hasn’t gotten this far in life by ignoring his instincts, so he listens for another moment before flicking his eyes open. He keeps his body still, scanning what he can see of his (empty, dark) room before siting up. Nothing is different. So what is wrong?

A knock on the door interrupts his thinking, and he glances over to see Alfred enter with a tray in his hands.

"Good morning, Master Bruce," the older man says primly, walking forward and setting the tray on the table beside the bed. Bruce smells coffee, eggs, and bacon. He quirks an eyebrow; breakfast in bed? "How are your ribs feeling this morning?"

His ribs?

"My ribs?" he asks.

Alfred sends him a firm look, the one usually reserved for when he or one of the boys are attempting to hide an injury, and says, “If you would remove your shirt, Sir.”

Bruce considers arguing, but there’s still something off, something _wrong,_ and he still can’t tell what it is. So, he complies.

And then he stares down at his chest, because the extensive bruising painting his skin certainly wasn’t there when he went to bed.

Bruce feels his heartbeat begin to rise.

Alfred reaches forward and probes at his skin, just as clinical and attentive as he always is when checking injuries.

"What is your current pain level?" the butler asks.

It doesn’t make any sense. The way Alfred’s examining him, the bruises, the places that hurt—he has a cracked rib, probably two, and certainly a few bruised. He hasn’t had an injury like this in _weeks,_ at least a month, but the coloring shows that he must’ve gotten this the night before. And he has absolutely zero recollection of such an event.

"Sir?" Alfred prompts again, glancing up at him.

"Three," Bruce manages to get out past the confusion (and panic), his voice perfectly even simply by habit, "on a scale of ten."

Alfred raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “So a five, then.”

Regardless of the strange circumstances, Bruce cracks a small smile at the tone. "You know me."

"Yes, yes I do," Alfred confirms, and then fixes him with a searching look. "Are you alright, Master Bruce?"

"Of course," Bruce replies immediately. "Simply tired."

Alfred hums and nods, though he doesn’t quite look like he believes him. But that’s always been Alfred; lying to him is next to impossible.

"Very well, Sir," the older man says all the same, letting it go. "Now, in accordance with Dr. Tompkins’ orders, you are to keep physical activity to an absolute _minimum,_ and thus you shall eat in bed and _stay_ in bed until at least eleven a.m.. Master Richard has been given similar instructions, though heaven knows at least one of you will disobey."

Bruce jolts, his heart speeding up once again. "Dick is here?"

Alfred, who had been beginning to turn towards the door, pauses and furrows his brow. "Of course. He wouldn’t just leave in the middle of the night, not without saying goodbye. Besides, with his injury, I’d have his head if he tried such a thing." He pauses, eyes flicking over Bruce. "Are you _sure_ you’re alright, Master Bruce?"

"Yes, sorry," Bruce replies, because he can’t say _what the hell is going on._ "I’m fine. You can go."

Alfred nods, hesitates for a moment longer, and then leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Dick’s actually here. His son is actually under his roof, spending the night. Bruce can’t remember the last time Dick stayed at the Manor. Things are better between them than they were a year ago, but he’s pretty sure they haven’t reached a point where Alfred would be surprised by the idea of Dick leaving without telling them all _goodbye._

The strange feeling he has, the injured ribs, Dick being at the Manor—Bruce has been Batman long enough to understand that there are a few possibilities here: the first, the simplest, is just a bit of memory loss. A week or so, maybe. Concerning, but normal. Missing time would account for strange injuries and the presence of someone who certainly hadn’t been there before.

The other two options are...less simple.

He could’ve been pulled into an alternate dimension somehow. Far more worrisome, and certainly exhausting. Universe hopping is always such a long process, and subject to _many_ possible complications.

Or, this is time travel. Still his universe, but not his life, not really. Not _yet._ Also worrisome, seeing as he has no idea how he would’ve time traveled, nor how to get back.

He pulls his shirt back on and glances around. Over on the bedside table, beside the tray Alfred brought in, is a cellphone. Not the same one he put there when he went to bed, but still a cellphone. He picks it up and the screen lights up in response, and he blinks at the unfamiliar screensaver.

It’s a candid photo of a group of people, only two of whom he recognizes. There’s Dick and Tim, but Tim seems more filled out than the scrawny kid he took in eleven months ago. Dick’s face is thinner too, more defined, but the bright smile on his face is exactly the same.

There’s three other people in the photo, two boys and a girl. One of the boys is clearly the youngest of the group, barely into his teenage years, Bruce would guess. Dick’s arms are slung around the boy’s shoulders from behind, and the boy looks like he’s attempting to suppress a smile with a frown.

The girl is sitting cross-legged beside Tim, currently playing with his hair, her eyes crinkling with clear delight. Tim’s exasperated expression is very familiar to Bruce, but the _joy_ radiating off of him is not. Tim has his moments, but he never seems like a... _happy_ boy. It makes Bruce ache to see something like this more often.

Bruce can only make out about half of the second boy’s face, the sun up above hitting the camera and obscuring the boy from the nose up, adorning him with a golden halo instead. But there’s something extremely familiar about the grin on the boy’s face as he says something to Tim and the girl. Bruce can’t quite place it, though.

He stares at the photo for a long time, pushing the power button any time the screen goes dark. There’s something so amazing about this photo, about the fact that it’s his screensaver. All five of the people pictured seem so _happy,_ like somehow Bruce managed to capture a perfect moment in history.

He doesn’t even know who most of them _are,_ and yet they are apparently important enough to be his phone screensaver, something he must see multiple times a day, every day. And going by the blinding smile on Dick’s face that Bruce hasn’t seen for real in _years,_ going by the joy coming off Tim in _waves,_ these people are important to his boys, too.

And only then does Bruce notice the date that’s been staring him in the face the entire time from his lock screen.

_September 29, 2019_

Bruce feels his mouth go dry. 2019. _2019._

He’s gone exactly seven years into the future.

So, time travel it is. Great. And this time it seems that he’s been sent into his future body instead of just traveling as himself, what with the bruises he certainly didn’t receive on September 29th, 2012. That makes things even more complicated.

"I love that picture," a smooth, _familiar_ voice says from the doorway. "That was a great day."

Bruce’s head snaps up from where he was staring at his phone, shocked at himself for not hearing the door open. And then he’s shocked for a completely separate reason, because...Clark is there. Clark Kent, _Superman,_ is somehow standing in his bedroom, leaning casually against the doorjamb, dressed in plaid pajama pants and a blue t-shirt. There’s a soft smile curving his lips, a _fond_ smile, and it makes Bruce’s heart clench, his stomach leap.

_What the hell is he doing here?_

When Bruce doesn’t say anything, Clark pushes himself upright and takes a few steps forward. His eyes drift down to the cellphone, still clenched tightly in Bruce’s hand, and then back up to Bruce’s face.

And Bruce is...well, he’s struggling. Because Clark is still looking at him with those glowing eyes and gentle smile, an expression Bruce has seen on his friend’s face a few times but _certainly_ not directed at him. It makes his mouth go dry, makes his heart skip a beat—

Clark’s lips quirk up a little, eyes sparking with amusement, and Bruce curses himself internally, controlling his pulse; he thought he’d mastered that ages ago, dammit. Mastered making sure Clark never—

"Are you okay?" Clark asks, brow furrowing. He takes another few steps forward, right at Bruce’s bedside, and why is he so close? That’s not a proper distance.

What is Clark _doing here?_

"Alfred said you seemed a little off, and I have to agree." Clark tilts his head and then reaches out, resting his hand on top of Bruce’s. It’s only years upon years of controlling his reactions that keeps him from jolting.

"I’m fine," Bruce says, though he’s anything but. Things have just gone from strange to _outlandish._ "You are both overly concerned."

Clark crack a smile. It’s bright and wry and Bruce has long been used to being Clark’s friend in his time, used to Clark’s kindness and his humor, used to what Clark’s mere presence does, but this is different, _Clark_ is acting _different,_ and Bruce doesn’t understand.

"You sure?" Clark asks. He strokes his thumb across Bruce’s knuckles. It’s like fire. "Because you seem to be in that mindset where you’re freaking out about something and trying really hard to pretend like you’re not."

Bruce blinks at him. Clark laughs and shakes his head ruefully, then backs up a step and lets his hand fall. Bruce misses the warmth immediately.

"Okay, B," Clark says, shaking his head. "If you need to talk, though, I’m here." He’s smiling, but it’s a rueful look, the kind of expression Clark always gives him when Bruce tries to block him from helping on a mission. Some things, at least, never change.

"I know Alfred gave instructions for you to stay in bed until eleven, and normally I’d be doing everything I could to keep you in bed—" he winks, actually _winks,_ "—but considering Dick has already broken out, I figured I’d let you know that the boys are in the midst of a very _lively_ debate about some TV show I’ve never heard of, Cass is filming it, and Stephanie is over and stealing our food."

Two out of three of the names Clark just said are unfamiliar, but he supposes he has to get used to that feeling.

Clark is clearly expecting a response, so Bruce sticks to what he knows. "Of course Dick already left his room," he says, shaking his head fondly, and Clark smiles back at him.

"C’mon," he says, nodding towards the door, "you should join us."

"Disregarding Alfred’s ruling, Boy Scout?" Bruce finds himself saying, finds himself _smiling,_ "What would your dear sweet mother say?"

Clark snorts and rolls his eyes right back. He looks amused. He looks _soft,_ his hair ruffled up, glasses completely absent, barefooted, wearing PJs. It’s...nice. It’s _wrong._ Out of place. A strong reminder that he is not where he’s supposed to be.

"I’d say race you to the dining room, but..." With that, Clark flashes him a cheeky smile, and is right out the door.

Bruce’s heart thumps once, loudly, before he corrects it again.

He has to be mistaken; this has to be another dimension. He’s fallen through time _and_ space, that’s it. There’s no way this is his future.

Not with Clark Kent looking at him like that. Not with the goddamn _Superman_ walking around his house like—like this is his _home,_ or something, like he’s supposed to be able to casually hold Bruce’s hand, supposed to wander around looking more comfortable that Bruce thinks he’s ever seen him.

This isn’t his life. He doesn’t—he doesn’t _get_ this life. Not with Clark. Clark is...no. Bruce would never even dream of such a thing. It’s not an option. Clark is _Clark._ And Bruce is...

Bruce swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, taking stock of any injuries this older version of him has. The rib injury seems to be the worst of it, just a few small bruises on his legs and arms. Clearly a tough fight, but nowhere _close_ to the worst he’s had.

As he walks towards the door, he avoids looking in the mirror; he doesn’t need to see his face seven years older. He doesn’t want it, not for another seven years.

He heads through the halls and down the large staircase, moving carefully as his ribs complain. When he starts to approach the dining room, he can hear the sound of multiple people talking—okay, _shouting_ —at once. He pushes open the swinging door and quirks a bemused smile at the sight in front of him.

There’s a large group sitting around the table, and it seems like everyone is in motion; reaching for plates, gesturing wildly as they talk, pushing into each others’ personal spaces for some reason or another. It’s absolutely chaotic and Bruce can’t believe any version of himself would appreciate such a thing so early in the morning, but—

_But._

But he sees Dick and Tim, and they look _happy._ Dick almost knocks a glass over as he tells some story, and Tim is disagreeing with whatever he’s saying, but Bruce hasn’t seen Dick light up like that in a long time, doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen Tim look so at peace in the Manor.

He recognizes a few of the people from his phone lock screen, but there’s a blonde girl who’s unfamiliar and in the place of the boy whose face he’d only half-seen is Clark Kent, sitting amongst the chaos with a cup of coffee in his hands and a gentle smile curving his lips as the youngest boy speaks passionately, a determined look on his face that feels out of place on someone so young.

The Asian girl from his phone screen is the first to notice him standing in the doorway. She cocks her head, gaze flicking over him, and then she smiles, something mischievous in her expression that has Bruce unconsciously smiling back.

She gets to her feet and slips away from the table, barely making a sound as she approaches him.

For another long moment, she simply watches him, but then she says, "It’s okay to want this."

Bruce arches an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

The girl shakes her head fondly. "You’re not...from here. From now?" She shakes her head again. "Specifics don’t matter. You don’t have this yet. It’s okay to want it."

Bruce stares down at her, speechless. How could she _possibly_ know? If freaking _Superman,_ with all his enhanced senses and various powers, couldn’t tell that he isn’t really the right Bruce, then how could this young girl who’d barely glanced at him before understanding?

"I don’t have room for this in my life," he finds himself saying.

And he doesn’t; between handling Wayne Enterprises and the Justice League, acting as Brucie Wayne, his repairing (but still sensitive) relationship with Dick, attempting to make Tim feel like he has a home at the Manor, and his regular duties as Batman, Bruce simply doesn’t have time for anything—or any _one_ —else.

The girl’s eyes crinkle with a smile. She looks delighted when she tells him, "Wrong."

Bruce blinks at her, flabbergasted. She sounds so sure, so _certain,_ and Bruce can’t possibly understand why.

But then a loud laugh from the table draws his eyes back to it, back to the joy around his normally quiet dining room table, and Bruce thinks that maybe, okay, _maybe_ this is an option.

That’s when Clark glances up and catches his eye, and the way the other man is looking at him, it’s just—it doesn’t make any _sense._

It’s taken him a while to be able to admit this, but Clark Kent is probably his best friend. Well, no _probably_ about it. Hell, Dick’s been calling the man _Uncle Clark_ since before he was in double-digits. He was the first of the League Bruce shared his identity with. He was the person who stopped Bruce from going too far after Jason died. Time and time again he was— _is_ —the man Bruce allows himself to turn to.

But never in a million years would he have allowed himself something like _this._

"Talk to him," the girl at Bruce’s side urges him. "Tell him you’re...out of place. He will help. Always."

Bruce opens his mouth to refute that claim, to tell her that he can figure this out on his own, but she’s already moving away from him and towards Clark. Bruce jerks, wanting to stop her, but she’s gone, whispering something in Clark’s ear. Clark’s brow furrows at whatever she says, concern clouding the joy that had been there only seconds before.

Bruce finds himself missing it.

Clark says something to the young boy who’d been speaking, who now turns up his nose and pointedly looks the other direction, inserting himself into conversation with Dick and Tim. Clark smiles briefly, amused, and then stands up and heads towards Bruce.

Just like in his bedroom, just like every encounter Bruce has with Clark, he controls his heartbeat and breathing.

"Hey," Clark says softly. Past him, Bruce can see Dick glance over at them, looking a little concerned, too. But he seems to trust that Clark has whatever it is under control, and goes back to talking with Tim and the other boy.

"Are you okay?" Clark asks, voice still soft, and Bruce has barely opened his mouth to say _I’m fine_ when Clark continues. "And don’t say you are again, because now it’s not just me and Alfred, but Cass too, and Cass is never wrong about these things."

Cass. That must be the girl’s name. And clearly this isn’t the first time she’s somehow known things she shouldn’t be able to. Meta? Possible.

But Clark is still watching him with that gentle, concerned look of his, waiting for a response. So Bruce weighs his options, contains a sigh, and heads back out the dining room door, gesturing for Clark to follow him.

He leads them to his office, but instead of heading down to the batcave he goes towards the pair of glass doors and out onto the small patio. It’s a sunny day, cooled by a nice breeze, and Bruce sits down in one of the four chairs around a small square table. Clark sits beside him, and looks to him expectantly.

"What did Cass say, exactly?" Bruce asks. It’s always good to have all the information first, in his experience.

"Just that something is up with you, and I needed to talk to you." He tilts his head, eyes flicking over Bruce’s face, the look of concern growing deeper. "What’s going on, B?"

Bruce tries to think of how to phrase this, tries to think of what to say, but his brain is barely more than static when Clark reaches across the table and holds Bruce’s hand.

It’s a different hand than the one Clark used earlier, in the bedroom. This time it’s his left hand. Which means this time Bruce sees— _feels_ —the ring around Clark’s finger.

He can’t help but stare at it. It’s beautiful, a simple silver band—it looks like Nth Metal, actually—with three small black stones inlaid. It’s something Bruce could see himself picking out, or wearing. And that’s just...

When he went to bed the night before, he was unprepared for something like this.

"Bruce?"

Bruce’s eyes fly back up to Clark’s face, concern still written across his features.

"Last night was September 28th, 2012 for me."

Clark blinks at the statement, lips parting in surprise. "...What?"

Bruce sits back in his seat, forcing himself to pull his hand out from under Clark’s, missing the warmth immediately. Clark glances down at the motion, frowning, and then he leans back in his chair, too. He looks so _tired_ all of a sudden, and Bruce wishes he could wipe it all away.

"Seven years, huh?" Clark murmurs, nodding. He smiles, but it lacks the joy from before, the comforting softness.

Bruce nods sharply.

Clark chuckles and shakes his head. "You must be pretty confused."

"A little," Bruce says hesitantly. "A lot of unfamiliar faces and...unfamiliar relationships."

Clark’s smile turns rueful. He runs his thumb over the ring, an unconscious motion, and says, "From the moment you saw me earlier you were..." He laughs a little. "You were freaking out. I didn’t want to push, but it makes sense now. Suddenly your pal Clark was in your bedroom and holding your hand, right? Must’ve been weird."

Weird? Yes. But the way Clark is speaking implies that it’s something he thinks Bruce considers it a _bad_ weird, a kind of weird that would make Bruce upset, instead of the truth which is—

Well. Which is something Bruce keeps locked in a very small, tight box inside of himself. A box he doesn’t allow anyone to see, least of all Clark.

"It was...different," Bruce says haltingly. Clark grimaces.

"I assume you have questions."

Bruce’s eyes drift down to the ring around Clark’s finger. "Yes."

Clark follows Bruce’s gaze and then reaches up towards his neck, pulling off a necklace, and hands it to Bruce. Bruce takes the chain and looks at the item hanging off of it. It’s another ring, exactly the same as the one on Clark’s finger, except instead of three black stones there are three red ones.

"That one’s yours," Clark tells him, smiling slightly at the shining ring. "You take it off when you go on patrol, and since you were injured..." He shrugs a shoulder, a little awkwardly. "Well, I always keep wearing it until you’re walking and talking. At breakfast I would’ve slid it back onto your finger."

"How long?" Bruce asks, and he knows he doesn’t have to explain further than that.

"Been together about four years," Clark says, "married for a year and a half of that."

Which means that three years from Bruce’s present, he and Clark Kent will get together. How is that even possible? How is _any_ of that possible? How could Clark possibly...?

"And all of those people in there?"

"Your family, Bruce," Clark says firmly. "And quite a great one at that."

"Hn."

Clark smiles, his eyes crinkling. The smile fades quickly, though. "Look, I know this must be really strange. In 2012 you weren’t—well, _we_ weren’t..." He sighs. "What I’m trying to say is that when you go back to your time, don’t take all this out on past me."

Bruce frowns. "Take this out on you?" he echoes questioningly.

Clark hums, nodding. "I know you, Bruce. When you get uncomfortable about emotional stuff, you isolate. Or, more specifically, you isolate from the person or thing that brought about the emotional stuff in the first place. Which, in this case, would probably be me. I mean, after our first kiss you didn’t speak to me for a week!"

And okay, yeah, maybe that does sound like something Bruce would do. Dick’s told him before that he’s emotionally constipated. Dick taught that line to Jason, too, and his second son called him it once as well. Tim hasn’t yet, thank god, but Bruce is sure it’s only a matter of time.

"Which one of us proposed?" Bruce finds himself asking, and he has no idea why. He should stop his conversation in its tracks, before he gives something away.

Then he remembers that the man he’s talking to is _married_ to him, and maybe he’s long since passed the point of having to hide things like this. Years of habit are hard to break, though, and certainly not done within a few minutes.

Clark smiles like the sun. "You did. In the middle of a battle, actually. But I was the one to ask you out in the first place."

Bruce blinks. "You were?"

"Of course," Clark says, smile growing. "I mean, I was the one with the actual feelings at the time, it wasn’t going to be you. The fact that you said yes at all was a miracle."

Bruce opens his mouth, and then closes it. Does it again. Clark’s brow furrows as Bruce gapes at him.

"What?" Clark asks, concerned. "What is it?"

"You weren’t," Bruce gets out.

Clark tilts his head. "Weren’t what?"

He forces himself to keep speaking, to not back out now. "The only one with real feelings."

Clark’s lips curve in amusement. "B, you haven’t even _lived_ that time period yet. You don’t know that."

Stop talking, stop talking, stoptalking _stoptalking—_ "I do know that."

Now, Clark looks exasperated. "B—"

"I do," Bruce says firmly.

"Alright," Clark agrees, but he doesn’t look like he does. "How?"

Bruce opens his mouth, but no words come out. Because Clark is just so...perfect. He’s always been _so perfect._ And now, Bruce has known Clark for _years,_ he’s seen all of his flaws, seen him at his absolute worst and his absolute best. He knows there are imperfections in this man so many see as a god. But still, Clark is so— _good,_ never someone Bruce considered would ever return his...feelings.

He’s kept that box very tightly concealed in his mind for _years._ It was never supposed to see the light of day. There would be no need for it. But now here Clark is, saying all these things, apparently believing that he was the one to have feelings, that it took Bruce a while to reach that point, and that’s just so inaccurate it’s almost funny.

"Because I already feel how my future self must’ve felt upon being asked out by you," Bruce says, words perfectly even because he makes them so.

Clark stares at him for a moment, lips parted and eyes a little wide, and then he breathes, _"Oh,"_ and smiles. Smiles in a way that makes Bruce’s heart thump in his chest, and that simply makes Clark’s smile grow.

"We’re very happy, Bruce," Clark tells him, the warmth in his voice like sunshine. "We are so _fucking_ happy it’s insane."

"Language," Bruce corrects automatically, because he can’t handle what Clark just said, can’t handle this perfect life that is apparently in his future. Can’t comprehend that apparently Clark had feelings strong enough to take the initiative to ask him out, can’t believe he had the patience to wait two and a half years to marry this man after they started.

Can’t comprehend that he gets to have this. This, and that group of people in the dining room.

"What’s on your mind, B?"

"My life is...not this," he says. He runs his thumb over the three red stones. "I can’t—"

"I’ll stop you right there," Clark murmurs, and he reaches out again, grabbing Bruce’s hand and holding on tightly. This time, Bruce lets it be, but he certainly doesn’t hold back. Absolutely not. "You can. And you will. And that’s all there is to it."

They sit there silently after that. The silence is peaceful. With Clark, it usually is.

Bruce knows he should be heading down to the batcave, trying to figure out why he’s been sent into the future and how to get back, but he can’t bring himself to move.

"It’s funny," Clark says after a little while. "At the beginning of September, you—well, future you, _my_ you—told me to watch out for something at the end of the month. Told me to be patient with him." Clark smiles. "It seems he knew, yeah? He knew."

"Did he leave any other cryptic messages?" Bruce asks dryly. "Such as how he got back to his own time?"

Clark quirks an eyebrow. "No, I don’t believe he left me any step-by-step instructions. Simply said something was going to happen and to be patient with him. He said it would be over before any of us knew it." He shakes his head. "I was concerned, but..."

 _Over before any of us knew it._ Well, that implies that it’s something that will correct itself. Bruce doesn’t like that; he wants a game plan. Something he needs to do. A reason to stop sitting here with a Clark Kent who loves him.

A Clark Kent who loves him. _Man,_ what a sentence.

"Clark?"

"Hm?"

"When did you—no, nevermind, I don’t want the answer to that question." He started to ask it before he really thought it through, but he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want Clark to tell him _when_ the Kryptonian started having feelings. Knowing isn’t worth it, he has to let this all play out as he should.

"You sure?" Clark asks. Bruce simply nods. Clark squeezes his hand, and Bruce hates how his heart leaps in response. "Well, alright. Do you—"

Suddenly there’s a rushing in his ears, and his body is tingling, and he can feel his heart _stop—_

And then he’s in a very different chair, now in the dining room of Wayne Manor, at the head of the table. It isn’t filled and loud like it was earlier, but empty save him and Tim.

A young Tim, _his_ Tim, not the one who’d been talking with Dick and the other boy not so long ago. Tim is looking at him with curiosity and concern, leaning forward slightly, and Bruce realizes what this means—he didn’t just go forward into his future-self’s body, but his future-self also came back through time into his.

"Tim," Bruce murmurs, "did you happen to have a time traveling visitor?"

His boy lights up slightly, and Bruce aches, because Tim should always be able to look so happy. "Yeah! It was you, but seven years in the future. He wouldn’t really tell me anything, which makes sense, but it was still really cool to talk to him."

Bruce hums, nodding. "Did he tell you _why_ this happened?"

Tim shakes his head, sitting back in his chair. "He said he remembers living through this switch, but that he never really figured out why. He thought that maybe some meta was messing with their powers and you got stuck in some kind of glitch, but..." Tim shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe we’ll have better luck?"

Bruce opens his mouth to respond but he’s stopped by Alfred entering the room.

"Mister Kent is here to see you, Master Bruce," Alfred informs him.

Bruce stares in surprise. Then he looks to Tim.

"Future-you called him, asked him to come over for some reason," Tim says, and though his face is calm there’s something in his voice that makes Bruce narrow his eyes suspiciously. Tim smiles, too innocent.

"Send him in, Alfred," Bruce says tiredly.

"Very good, Sir," the butler says, and departs.

"Tim—" Bruce growls.

"What?" Tim returns, still smiling innocently, and takes a bite of the food on the plate in front of him.

His kid is saved from any further comment by Alfred’s return, this time bringing Clark Kent with him.

It’s strange to see him so soon after seeing his future self, not that seven years had done a single thing to make him look any less beautiful.

"Hi guys," Clark greets, and maybe Bruce is seeing things because of what he just learned, but Bruce feels like Clark’s eyes linger on him a moment longer than they do on Tim or Alfred. Maybe he’s imagining things, after the way future-Clark smiled at him, like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, but now...

Has he simply been blind, refusing to see the way his Clark— _his Clark_ —looks at him? Because Clark has already looked away, heading for the table, but the smile on his lips is gentle and soft and reminds Bruce of plaid pajama pants and Nth Metal rings.

Bruce has never allowed himself to let his gaze linger on Clark Kent. So maybe he’s just never seen it before. Maybe it’s always been there.

"Hello," Bruce replies softly, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tim grin.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Start And Never Stop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620474) by [MindyMN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindyMN/pseuds/MindyMN)




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